Poetry competition CLOSED 1st July 2012 1:53am
WINNER
SychophanticSlag
SychophanticSlag
RUNNERS-UP:
CruelHandedWriter
and leonardo
That which must not be named
Poetry Contest Description
Write about death without explicitly mentioning it or using any imagery commonly associated with death.
I see death, and blood, and gravestones too often here; none of it actually reaches me anymore. So let's apply some imagination and creativity to the topic.
- One month to come up with your best work.
- New or old.
- Two poems max.
- One month to come up with your best work.
- New or old.
- Two poems max.
I originally wrote this for another comp based on a similar idea.
Kiss Me
I’ve been waiting to look you in the face
To see that look in your eyes, just before you take me
It’s been a long journey from there to here
And we’ve come close a few times
Enough for me to feel your cool breath upon my lips
Almost a kiss, with the promise of darkness
And a whisper of comfort, if only I’d take your hand
Press my lips against yours and give in to your embrace
Where a new world awaits me, with new adventures
To rival the ones of this life, that is nearly over now
Though it has been well lived, and well loved
And will not be forgotten, even if it can never be remembered
Kiss Me
I’ve been waiting to look you in the face
To see that look in your eyes, just before you take me
It’s been a long journey from there to here
And we’ve come close a few times
Enough for me to feel your cool breath upon my lips
Almost a kiss, with the promise of darkness
And a whisper of comfort, if only I’d take your hand
Press my lips against yours and give in to your embrace
Where a new world awaits me, with new adventures
To rival the ones of this life, that is nearly over now
Though it has been well lived, and well loved
And will not be forgotten, even if it can never be remembered
the sex and violence of a metaphor
"These violent delights have violent ends, and in their triumph die,
Like fire and powder, which as they kiss, consume." - William Shakespeare
her melancholia always had a way
of wrapping itself around my throat
like the tightening of a noose
with heavy feet on a wobbly chair
it was the way she looked at me
that had me hanging myself
at the mercy of her desires
my resolve unraveling
at the unspoken promises in her eyes
that only through pain could we set
ourselves free from the demons we craved
my body a story of bruises and blood
to be read in the ecstasy of bitten-off screams
of my gagged, assimilated soul
willing, always willing
to fall on perpetually bruised knees
and gaze up at her magnitude
that burnt through me with every lament
uttered from her spirit-drenched lips
as I dragged her whimpering into bliss
pleading for oblivion at my touch
in the love-soaked sheets of our delusion
amid the echoes of our screams
it was easy to imagine heaven within the abyss
God a silent watcher to our guilt-christened fucks
that only fueled the passion for more violent affairs
agony our paltry saviour while we dined on pleasure
gluttons for punishment at the click of rosary beads
‘til death do us part
"These violent delights have violent ends, and in their triumph die,
Like fire and powder, which as they kiss, consume." - William Shakespeare
her melancholia always had a way
of wrapping itself around my throat
like the tightening of a noose
with heavy feet on a wobbly chair
it was the way she looked at me
that had me hanging myself
at the mercy of her desires
my resolve unraveling
at the unspoken promises in her eyes
that only through pain could we set
ourselves free from the demons we craved
my body a story of bruises and blood
to be read in the ecstasy of bitten-off screams
of my gagged, assimilated soul
willing, always willing
to fall on perpetually bruised knees
and gaze up at her magnitude
that burnt through me with every lament
uttered from her spirit-drenched lips
as I dragged her whimpering into bliss
pleading for oblivion at my touch
in the love-soaked sheets of our delusion
amid the echoes of our screams
it was easy to imagine heaven within the abyss
God a silent watcher to our guilt-christened fucks
that only fueled the passion for more violent affairs
agony our paltry saviour while we dined on pleasure
gluttons for punishment at the click of rosary beads
‘til death do us part
Deonte and FishCake, please go back and read the challenge description--I'm accepting poems about death without mentioning death explicitly, or using any common imagery associated with it. (Hell, heaven, demons, angels, blood, gore, etc)
kiss me
take me
take me to that promised land
one which konws no bounds
take me away
from this horrid place
to somewhere
where we can have a sweet escape
i trust you
i do
you dont believe me
how rude
i swear
just take me
take me anywhere
where fire burns
or wings flap
take me anywhere
as long as im with you
my family can be pleased
they will shed no tears
if im with the one i love
i did it over
i hope this ones better
The Maid in this poem is Death herself.
- The Dying Gunslinger -
Across a plain in old New England, walked…
The wanderer who had been a slinger of guns,
Who had dealt death to many a boasting man!
One bullet still remained, no victim stalked…
By a deadly aim, more terrible than the Huns,
And so, that wanderer set out across the land.
One maid was left for him to court, one hour,
Fair to look forward to as his weary feet tread.
Across the bleak plain of white melting snow!
Compelled was he, by some mad inner power,
To continue on, when he should be long dead.
He did go, where no rivers could even flow…
From the west he came, a man with no name,
Seeking forgiveness, for a life of wickedness.
No man could grant his heart’s fierce desire…
Nor woman, but one with eyes like hot flame,
Who could ease distress, and his sins confess.
And so was he resolved, like phoenix to pyre!
To a mighty stockade fence, his feet took him.
A wall where none reared by living hand lay…
Did greet his eyes beneath chilled winter skies.
His heart was glad, but his spirits were grim…
For he knew that wall where no birds did play,
Save for whatever hour, the lonely raven flies.
Out of a portal in the wall, there came but she,
Her skin as white as the snow, that lay around.
A mane of black hair was hers, black as night!
It was the moment of the gunslinger’s victory,
For he had arrived, where she could be found.
He rushed forward, so anxious for her delight!
Her lips were red as blood, her mouth opening,
To grant her kiss to the man who loved her so!
They held each other, passions erasing thought.
The gunslinger did not live to see that spring…
He was found dead, upon a plain of cold snow,
His last bullet fired, by the maid he had sought.
- The Dying Gunslinger -
Across a plain in old New England, walked…
The wanderer who had been a slinger of guns,
Who had dealt death to many a boasting man!
One bullet still remained, no victim stalked…
By a deadly aim, more terrible than the Huns,
And so, that wanderer set out across the land.
One maid was left for him to court, one hour,
Fair to look forward to as his weary feet tread.
Across the bleak plain of white melting snow!
Compelled was he, by some mad inner power,
To continue on, when he should be long dead.
He did go, where no rivers could even flow…
From the west he came, a man with no name,
Seeking forgiveness, for a life of wickedness.
No man could grant his heart’s fierce desire…
Nor woman, but one with eyes like hot flame,
Who could ease distress, and his sins confess.
And so was he resolved, like phoenix to pyre!
To a mighty stockade fence, his feet took him.
A wall where none reared by living hand lay…
Did greet his eyes beneath chilled winter skies.
His heart was glad, but his spirits were grim…
For he knew that wall where no birds did play,
Save for whatever hour, the lonely raven flies.
Out of a portal in the wall, there came but she,
Her skin as white as the snow, that lay around.
A mane of black hair was hers, black as night!
It was the moment of the gunslinger’s victory,
For he had arrived, where she could be found.
He rushed forward, so anxious for her delight!
Her lips were red as blood, her mouth opening,
To grant her kiss to the man who loved her so!
They held each other, passions erasing thought.
The gunslinger did not live to see that spring…
He was found dead, upon a plain of cold snow,
His last bullet fired, by the maid he had sought.
Spring is born and the wind saunters through tall grass picking up the scent of honeysuckle and wild strawberries. It smells like candy. I inhale and turn to my neighbor looking to share this moment with anybody. He is all but impressed and his gray face contorts with disgust. I'm sure it's masking pounds of sorrow and longing, so I let him be.
They're all the same. They cant find solace in the drone of pokey insects or reminisce at the sound of children's laughter. The soft soil doesn't remind them of their children and their grandchildren's mud pies... If it does they're too busy being miserable to enjoy those memories.
A crown of daisies sprout and entwine around my skull. I couldn't feel more beautiful if it were my wedding day all over again. I let the atmosphere take me and I forget about everyone else. They can scowl and wish to walk the earth once more. I am completely at ease letting the ground wash over me, I am finally a part of something profound.
__________________________
I hope this meets expectations. :|
They're all the same. They cant find solace in the drone of pokey insects or reminisce at the sound of children's laughter. The soft soil doesn't remind them of their children and their grandchildren's mud pies... If it does they're too busy being miserable to enjoy those memories.
A crown of daisies sprout and entwine around my skull. I couldn't feel more beautiful if it were my wedding day all over again. I let the atmosphere take me and I forget about everyone else. They can scowl and wish to walk the earth once more. I am completely at ease letting the ground wash over me, I am finally a part of something profound.
__________________________
I hope this meets expectations. :|
http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/53539-yester-now/
my shallow gasp
getting faint
your mellow whisper
in crescendoes
tears you see
love's love
flowing conscious
your memoirs
grief you suffer
the span
of a falling leaf
to earth
pollens travel
jubilee birth
a flower withers
a cycle served
mors inevitabilis est,
et hora ejus incerta
vigor afterglow
the sun had past
let it go
sleep to my lullaby
curious stallion
galloping with grace
stumbles upon a lovely view
her stride slackening
da-dap da-dap
the sound
slowing down
it was yester now
Written last week
my shallow gasp
getting faint
your mellow whisper
in crescendoes
tears you see
love's love
flowing conscious
your memoirs
grief you suffer
the span
of a falling leaf
to earth
pollens travel
jubilee birth
a flower withers
a cycle served
mors inevitabilis est,
et hora ejus incerta
vigor afterglow
the sun had past
let it go
sleep to my lullaby
curious stallion
galloping with grace
stumbles upon a lovely view
her stride slackening
da-dap da-dap
the sound
slowing down
it was yester now
Written last week
Closed eyes but still you stare,
Stroke her hair and hold her hand tight.
You tell her how she can be proud of you,
Your arrangement of her day in the spotlight.
Your favourite photograph of her,
Stands at the forefront of her friends.
Her family collect together again,
Like a wedding day when love extends.
You smile and think of how she’d smile more,
When people stand up to praise her spirit.
You are honoured that she is your wonderful wife,
And promise her you will see her in just a little bit…………
Stroke her hair and hold her hand tight.
You tell her how she can be proud of you,
Your arrangement of her day in the spotlight.
Your favourite photograph of her,
Stands at the forefront of her friends.
Her family collect together again,
Like a wedding day when love extends.
You smile and think of how she’d smile more,
When people stand up to praise her spirit.
You are honoured that she is your wonderful wife,
And promise her you will see her in just a little bit…………
Dragging My Gloves to the Bosom
I am a result of a few punches too many,
both ways.
I still wear my faded black gloves
heavily downed with new-grown tolerances
and stone-old embedded regret.
From years of soaking up other's anger and
flurrying mine in any direction
I now know that it's not that I don't feel pain
it's just that I've developed a different understanding.
Never had stability for too long,
something to settle into, dig my toes in the sand
and wiggle them around in contentment
instead I travel, subconscious and embolic
as a thorn in life's side to an ever-nearing bosom.
All these decorated war heros;
pawns in games of Troy-horse oppressions
that followed routines and squared their heads weekly
will join me in the ever-nearing -
and I'll march; we are all marching
to the penetrating drums of fate and circumstance
and we'll all be welcomed, regardless
of skin, history, future plans, hopes and wealth
into the gloryless cools of death's busy bosom.
I am a result of a few punches too many,
both ways.
I still wear my faded black gloves
heavily downed with new-grown tolerances
and stone-old embedded regret.
From years of soaking up other's anger and
flurrying mine in any direction
I now know that it's not that I don't feel pain
it's just that I've developed a different understanding.
Never had stability for too long,
something to settle into, dig my toes in the sand
and wiggle them around in contentment
instead I travel, subconscious and embolic
as a thorn in life's side to an ever-nearing bosom.
All these decorated war heros;
pawns in games of Troy-horse oppressions
that followed routines and squared their heads weekly
will join me in the ever-nearing -
and I'll march; we are all marching
to the penetrating drums of fate and circumstance
and we'll all be welcomed, regardless
of skin, history, future plans, hopes and wealth
into the gloryless cools of death's busy bosom.
http://www.traveljournals.net/pictures/l/10/103727-the-gruesome-deaths-of-cambodians-at-the-hands-of-the-khmer-rouge-pnom-penh-cambodia.jpg
~OH; You Know Who I Am~
You know I’m always here lingering around like a
Scent you deplore,,,
Waiting for that beautiful wreck in rush hour traffic,
Or the biggest mistake a weekend party drunk will
Ever make by getting behind the wheel,,,
I love floating around in the clouds above the
Highest mountain peeks, hoping for a not so
Graceful fall,,,
You’ll find me hanging around the sidewalks below
Tall city apartment buildings and skyscrapers,
Looking up to see who’s on their way down and
Welcoming them with open arms,,,
I carry a gun and a bottle of pills at all times
To lend out,
Just in case your greatest love breaks your heart
Beyond repair,,,
I’m despair at it‘s finest moment salivating to see
Which method you choose or hand you're dealt,,,
I’m the shadow in the war torn desert sands,
I’m a reality you can’t escape me,,,
I love joy riding on wings of skydiving planes,
That parachute can fail you Know and I won’t
Miss a beautiful landing,,,
I’m the time that runs out of everyone’s clock,
Whether hand wound or Battery operated,,,
I long for the sight of the electric chair or,
That seemingly sterile injecting room of a maximum
security prison,,,
I have no preference I am the ultimate thrill
Seeker and each show or trip I Attend or take
Can always produce an enticing end~!!!
OH; You know who I am; and eventually I will; come
to your house too;
~OH; You Know Who I Am~
You know I’m always here lingering around like a
Scent you deplore,,,
Waiting for that beautiful wreck in rush hour traffic,
Or the biggest mistake a weekend party drunk will
Ever make by getting behind the wheel,,,
I love floating around in the clouds above the
Highest mountain peeks, hoping for a not so
Graceful fall,,,
You’ll find me hanging around the sidewalks below
Tall city apartment buildings and skyscrapers,
Looking up to see who’s on their way down and
Welcoming them with open arms,,,
I carry a gun and a bottle of pills at all times
To lend out,
Just in case your greatest love breaks your heart
Beyond repair,,,
I’m despair at it‘s finest moment salivating to see
Which method you choose or hand you're dealt,,,
I’m the shadow in the war torn desert sands,
I’m a reality you can’t escape me,,,
I love joy riding on wings of skydiving planes,
That parachute can fail you Know and I won’t
Miss a beautiful landing,,,
I’m the time that runs out of everyone’s clock,
Whether hand wound or Battery operated,,,
I long for the sight of the electric chair or,
That seemingly sterile injecting room of a maximum
security prison,,,
I have no preference I am the ultimate thrill
Seeker and each show or trip I Attend or take
Can always produce an enticing end~!!!
OH; You know who I am; and eventually I will; come
to your house too;
It's my last cigarette
before I'm out for the night,
you'll have to grin and bare
the long pause,
Just like I'll wear
my famous shit eating smile
when the official knock
drags me from less
than an hours sleep.
I wasn't even going
to smoke again
until I remembered that.
It will go like this:
"Are you Mr Townend?"
and, of course,
I am,
but it's difficult
to put a man in handcuffs
when the people reporting the crime
are victims of the one thing worse
than someone else.
Fuck 'em...
Inhale
Exhale
Stop.
before I'm out for the night,
you'll have to grin and bare
the long pause,
Just like I'll wear
my famous shit eating smile
when the official knock
drags me from less
than an hours sleep.
I wasn't even going
to smoke again
until I remembered that.
It will go like this:
"Are you Mr Townend?"
and, of course,
I am,
but it's difficult
to put a man in handcuffs
when the people reporting the crime
are victims of the one thing worse
than someone else.
Fuck 'em...
Inhale
Exhale
Stop.
The Entrance, Exit, and Journey
Death is a doorway.
There is no question of it.
The real question lies
is it an entrance
or an exit?
Perhaps an entrance
to another universe
A parallel of your life on earth
Or maybe the exit of your being
To be used as an escape
when your life sets fire
It is the doorway that closes
The minute you walk through
ceasing not only your existence
But all the others' too
because once you're gone
they're erased completley.
The only thing death assures
is that it is the beginning
of a great journey.
We do not know the destination.
We do not know the path.
But we know the doorway,
and that is the root
of our expedition.
Death is a doorway.
There is no question of it.
The real question lies
is it an entrance
or an exit?
Perhaps an entrance
to another universe
A parallel of your life on earth
Or maybe the exit of your being
To be used as an escape
when your life sets fire
It is the doorway that closes
The minute you walk through
ceasing not only your existence
But all the others' too
because once you're gone
they're erased completley.
The only thing death assures
is that it is the beginning
of a great journey.
We do not know the destination.
We do not know the path.
But we know the doorway,
and that is the root
of our expedition.
